‘Yeah, we were just about to pack it all up for the day here, Doc.’
‘Of course you were.’
Hunter smiled. ‘So what have you got for us?’
Hunter and Garcia heard the sound of pages turning. ‘As we expected, all the cuts and bruises to the victim’s torso were done while he was still alive. I put the time of death somewhere between three and five in the morning.’
‘That would’ve given the killer at least three hours to create his sculpture,’ Hunter said.
‘That’s right,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘Like the previous two victims, this one also died from major-organ failure, mainly heart and kidneys, induced by severe loss of blood. The victim also had burn marks to his right nipple, torso, arms, genitals, and to his back. I am positive they were made with a hair iron.’
‘What?’ Garcia asked.
‘Some call them hair straighteners.’
‘Yes, I know what they are, Doc. Are you sure?’
‘As positive as I can be. The burn-marks are very uniform, with asymmetric straight-line edge. The ones to his nipple were what gave it away. The nipple tip isn’t burnt. The marks start just a few millimeters to each side of it, as if the nipple had been pinched away from the body, and then clamped through the side with a pair of red-hot clampers.’
Garcia ground his teeth and crossed his left arm over his chest.
‘The burn-marks were made by three-centimeter-wide plates, give or take a millimeter or two, which is pretty standard for several hair-iron brands. When the killer was done torturing the victim, he moved on to the amputations. The left leg was amputated first. The victim was still alive, but I’d say barely. That answers the question of why there was so much blood at the crime-scene. As I said, this time the killer wasn’t concerned with containing the hemorrhaging. There was no tying off or clipping of major arteries or large veins and vessels. The killer was happy to allow the victim to bleed out, and for that reason I don’t think we’re going to get much from toxicology this time. Or at least no heart-rate reducing drugs.’
‘But maybe some other type of drug?’ Hunter asked, picking up on Doctor Hove’s uncertain tone.
‘Maybe. I found a needle prick bruise to the right side of the victim’s neck. It looks like the killer injected the victim with something, we just don’t know what exactly, yet.’
Hunter scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper.
‘We were also correct about the killer’s lack of concern with the quality of the amputation incisions this time,’ Doctor Hove continued. ‘The instrument used was the same . . .’
‘An electric kitchen knife,’ Garcia said.
‘Uh-huh. But this time he used it more like a butcher, hacking and twisting it as if carving a roast. Also, I found no visible incision-line marks as on the previous two victims. The killer wasn’t worried about a correct cut point.’
‘He’s started enjoying this too much,’ Garcia commented.
‘We also found ligature marks on the wrists, forearms and ankles. Unlike the previous two, this victim was restrained. And that constitutes yet another departure from the initial MO. We didn’t find the restraining rope at the crime scene.’ More pages turning. ‘The wire used on the sculpture was the same as used on the previous two, and so was the bonding agent – superglue. As expected, forensics found several sets of latent prints in the office and reception room.’
‘The office cleaner came twice a week,’ Hunter said. ‘Last time was two days ago. She was due back tomorrow, early morning. We’ll run the prints anyway, but I’m sure they will belong to legitimate clients.’
Doctor Hove sighed. ‘That’s all I can tell you from the autopsy examination.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
‘Any progress with the new shadow images? Any links with the previous two?’
‘We’re still studying them, Doc,’ Hunter replied. This time his voice sounded tired.
‘Just out of curiosity, let me know if you get something, will you?’
‘Sure thing. By the way, Littlewood’s secretary told me that he used that secret book-box for his car keys and cellphone when he was in the office. Did forensics find them?’
‘Give me a sec.’ Fifteen silent seconds went by. ‘No, it’s not in the inventory. I’m looking at it right now. But they did find his last few cellphone bills. He kept them in a drawer in his desk.’
‘That could help. Could you send them over?’
‘No problem, you’ll have them first thing in the morning. OK, I’m going home now to a much-needed rest and a nice glass of wine,’ Doctor Hove said.
‘That sounds like a great idea to me,’ Garcia replied, while fixing Hunter down with a stare.
‘Yeah, you’re right, Doc,’ Hunter agreed, nodding at Garcia. ‘We need some rest before we fry.’
‘I’ll email you the autopsy results right now, and any lab results as soon as I get them, but you know the drill, it might be another day or two, even with an urgent request.’
‘That’s fine, Doc. Thank you for giving this high priority.’
Eighty-Four
Eleesha Holt woke up with the first rays of sunlight. No alarm needed. Her mind’s clock was as fine-tuned as a precision Swiss timepiece. But this morning, instead of getting up straight away as she always did, Eleesha lay in bed for an extra ten minutes, staring at the ceiling of her small bedroom. Thoughts of the long day ahead raced through her mind, and all of a sudden she was engulfed by terrible sadness and a feeling of helplessness. Slowly, she dragged herself off the bed, into the bathroom, and into a warm shower.
After the shower, Eleesha wrapped a towel around her head and slipped into her pale yellow bathrobe. She cleared a circular patch on the misty mirror and stared at her reflection for a long minute. Her sunken eyes, tired skin and weak gums were the result of a young life eaten away by drugs and alcohol. The scar on her left cheek was the result of sleeping with so many men and women – some of them could, and would, get violent. Her black skin did a great job of naturally disguising the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair had lost a lot of its natural shine and life, but with some effort, and a very hot hair iron, she could still make it look nice when she needed to.
Eleesha took a step back from the mirror, undid her bathrobe and let it fall to the floor. She tentatively ran a hand over her stomach, allowing the tips of her fingers to caress the three stabbing scars on it. Tears started to form in her eyes and she quickly reached for her bathrobe again, shaking the memories of her early life away from her mind.
After a quick breakfast, Eleesha returned to her bedroom, applied some light makeup, got dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and comfortable, everyday shoes, before making her way to the subway station. From Norwalk, where she lived, it was only four stops to Compton, with a subway-line change at Imperial/Wilmington.
At that time in the morning, Norwalk Station wasn’t busy yet. Eleesha knew that if she tried to leave her apartment around the morning rush hour, she would have to endure a hell of a journey – overcrowded station, overcrowded train, and not a chance in hell of getting a seat. No, Eleesha would rather get to her job half an hour earlier than venture into the city’s transport system at rush hour. There was always something to do at her desk anyway.
Eleesha had never gone to college. In fact, she’d dropped out of school midway through eighth grade, but her earlier life made her an expert in what she did. Eleesha was part of the Specialized Supportive Services branch of the Los Angeles Department of Public Social Services. The Specialized Supportive Services was created to help anyone dealing with domestic violence, substance abuse, mental-health problems, violence against women, and broken families.